


The Good Season

by zmeischa



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-05 04:11:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zmeischa/pseuds/zmeischa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are two good Seasons in a society woman’s life: the one when she is presented at court and the one after she had caught a husband. Edith is no débutante, and it seems that she'd never catch a husband, but business proposal from the most unexpected source comes her way, and then her Season takes a new turn...<br/>AU to third season's Christmas Special and all that followed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Afterwards recalling that day Richard Carlisle often wondered what had made him go to the National Gallery. The weather was probably to blame. It was one of those wonderful April days which seem to refute all bad opinions about English weather by their mere existence. After leaving the Parliament, where he’d had an urgent business, Carlisle thought that it would be nice to stroll in Kew or Regent’s Park. Businessmen don’t walk in parks on weekdays, though, so he banished the thought and decided he’d just go on foot to Trafalgar Square.   
When he found himself near Nelson’s Column, English weather had reaffirmed its bad reputation: the drizzle began. Carlisle looked around in search of shelter and found out he was standing in front of the National Gallery.  
He had always treated art like a partridge hunting: it was a waste of time, but useful for making connections. As he by chance found himself in a museum, it was worth his while to spend half an hour to refresh his memories about, say, Gainsborough or Constable.   
The museum was nearly empty. Sir Richard went though the Hogarth hall and once again became certain that he had no sense of humor: all the caricatures seemed senseless and badly drawn. And why couldn’t the man chose a subject that didn’t demand a ten-sentence explanation?   
In the next hall a girl in brown jacket stood near a landscape with cows. When she heard Carlisle’s steps she looked his way, startled, gave him a dry nod and quickly walked away. Sir Richard frowned. Was it some acquaintance he didn’t recognize? That was unpleasant, he prided himself on never forgetting a face. And why wouldn’t she greet him? He tried to describe her to himself, it helped sometimes. Hair the color of fallen leaves, brown eyes – that was an interesting and rare combination, and, to be sure, he just recently… He realized he was thinking about a book he had read couple of days ago.   
It seemed the landscape with cows was a Gainsborough. Sir Richard went slowly across the hall, looking at pictures, and his opinion about British paintings definitely improved. He still saw no reason to paint a horse or, say, the Salisbury cathedral, but both the stallion and the church definitely existed and didn’t demand fifty footnotes. They probably could even stir some emotions in the observer… Sir Richard scrutinized the portrait of Whistlejacket by Stubbs, but had to admit that the picture stirred nothing. A horse was a horse.   
The girl in brown jacket returned to the hall accompanied by Michael Gregson from The Sketch. Sir Richard touched his hat, but neither Gregson nor his companion paid him any attention.   
“Trust me, Edith, if I were free…” Gregson said, giving her an unhappy look.   
“You, free? It’s impossible, cowards are never free.”  
“Edith, you’re being unfair!”  
“Really? I’m tired of noble men, they all flee sooner or later.”   
At that point Sir Richard managed to enter into the French painting hall unnoticed. Such bad manners, making scenes in public places! But at least he remembered the girl. It was Lady Edith Crawley, Mary’s sister.   
When he came back to his office he demanded ten last issues of The Sketch from his secretary and spent some time perusing them. The results of this research were satisfactory; he put away the newspapers, found a number in the telephone directory, took the receiver and said:  
“Belgravia 82-12 if you please.”   
The telephone operator said, “Connecting”, then after several tones a polite male voice imparted that Sir Richard had reached the house of Lady Rosamund Painswick.   
“If Lady Edith Crawley is at home I’d like to speak to her if you please. My name is Sir Richard Carlisle.”  
There were withdrawing steps on the other end of the line, a woman’s voice exclaimed, “Stop it, you fool!” and “Oh, the ‘phone!”, then the steps grew close again and Edith said,  
“Good day! You may go, Walters. Pardon, Sir Richard, I wasn’t talking to you.”  
“Good day, Lady Edith. Could you tell me please how long will you stay in London?”   
She paused a little as if reckoning whether to lie and the particulars of the lie.   
“I leave for Downton tomorrow afternoon.”  
“Before you leave I’d like to talk to you about something which is not convenient to discuss by telephone. When could you meet with me?”   
She paused again.  
“Tonight is not possible… Tomorrow I take the two-o’clock train from Paddington. One o’clock at the station café, would that be convenient?”   
“Quite.”  
A doorbell was heard from afar.   
“Good-bye,” said Edith hastily and disconnected. 

*~*

Later that evening Sir Richard accompanied Lady Margaret Stein, commonly known as Margot, to the Saint-Martin Theater. Debrett could and did tell anyone that Lady Margaret Stein, née miss Margaret Cosgrove, was the elder daughter of colonel Cosgrove, that her late husband, Sir Hilary Stein, had been decorated with Victoria’s Cross and killed at the Battle on Somme, and that she was thirty-two years old (the last piece of information was rather indelicate – Margot herself admitted only to twenty-six). During the last year Sir Richard had been accompanying Margot to theaters, races, night-clubs and to people who would have deemed it below their dignity to receive a “newspaperman” last year.   
“Who are you bowing to?” Margot asked. “Someone I know? At least show me the direction.”  
Margot was terribly short-sighted and hid it meticulously. That was the origin of at least half of her notorious eccentricity.   
“Ten o’clock,” Sir Richard explained reluctantly. “Lady Rosamund Paiswick and Lady Edith Crawley.”  
Margot turned her head and sent a radiant smile somewhere into the middle distance.   
“Ah, the Granthams’ ugly daughter, I didn’t know she was in London, poor soul.”  
“Hardly a reason for commiseration.”  
“Didn’t you know? She has been jilted recently, right at the altar. Terrible, isn’t it? Of course, she is boring as rain so who can really blame him?”  
“I can,” Sir Richard said dryly. “I always blame people who don’t keep their promises.”  
Margot looked at him with her dark velvety eyes.   
“Really? That’s good to know.”  
Sir Richard wanted to say, “As far as I remember I promised you nothing”, but held himself in check. Margot was sure she was exploiting him shamelessly, and he tried to keep up that delusion.


	2. Chapter 2

Edith said goodbye to Lady Rosamund, gave her solemn oath that she’d take a taxi and went to the underground. She liked to be a driver in a car, not a passenger. She also needed to think, and she couldn’t think in taxis. That was like writing an article while a housemaid was tidying your room – both uncomfortable and indelicate.

The meeting with Carlisle in the National Gallery shook her less than she expected. Edith had a subconscious notion that after a broken engagement a man immigrated to Australia at least, and certainly didn’t stay in the city where his ex-bride or her relatives could stumble upon him. Were she to meet him on any other day she’d be beside herself with amazement and awkwardness. But yesterday’s talk with Michael ( _Mr Gregson_ , she corrected herself) took all her attention so she saw Sir Richard Carlisle with the same feelings she would see an elephant in the picture gallery, that is, with complete indifference.

The telephone conversation, on the other hand, greatly unsettled her. She suspected Carlisle was going to blackmail her and had no idea what to do. She imagined telling her father (an awful prospect), Matthew (better, but still humiliating), made a mental inventory of jewels she could secretly sell, decided that she could always complain to Granny, and calmed down a little. After all, being immoral enough to become worthy of blackmail was rather pleasant. To tell the truth, her fall from grace hadn’t been very deep (a married man called her by her given name and kissed her cheek several times), but that was something Sir Richard didn’t need to know.

Several hours later she saw him in the theater box opposite her own.

“Who’s that, Carlisle?” Lady Rosamund asked. “Oh dear, he has grown old.”

“No, he hasn’t,” Edith said indignantly. Sir Richard used to belong to Mary, and Edith always scrutinized Mary’s possessions looking for hidden defects. Were Sir Richard to grow old, she’d notice it before Aunt Rosamund.

“As you say, my dear. Margot looks gorgeous.”

Edith looked at the beautiful brunette in a burgundy dress.

“Who is she, his new fiancée? She resembles Mary quite a lot.”

“I wouldn’t call her a fiancée,” Aunt Rosamund said caustically. “But you’re right, he does seem to have a type.”

“That’s comforting, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“No one is unique, we are all replaceable, you just need to belong to a type.”

“I don’t believe Margot Stein would like to be Mary’s replacement. To tell the truth, I don’t believe Mary herself would like it so you’d better tell her nothing.”

Edith put that thought into her mental collection of things that should be told Mary at the right moment and tried to pay attention to the play.

 

*~*

 

Sir Richard was waiting for her at the café. Edith sat in front of him and tried to look proud and independent. When a waitress came to take her order she said with nonchalance,

“Just tea, please. And scones. And a chicken sandwich.”

Edith belonged to unhappy multitude of women whom anxiety made ravenous.

Sir Richard was sizing her up as if trying to determine what sum in small notes he could extract from her handbag right now. Edith immediately began talking about the weather, the coming Season and yesterday’s play. She knew she should keep meaningful silence, but couldn’t help herself: she had been trained not to let the small talk lag.

The waitress brought their orders, Sir Richard waited for her to leave and said,

“As far as I understand you don’t intend to continue writing for _The Sketch._ ”

Edith didn’t choke on her tea only because her governess had spent ten years teaching her not to.

“N-n-no, I guess not.”

She would never describe her break-up with Michael Gresgon in such terms, but there was no arguing with that: she certainly didn’t intent to write for _The Sketch_ anymore.

“In that case I would like to offer you a place in my newspaper.”

Edith put her sandwich back on the plate.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The same pay as at _The Sketch_ , Wednesday column. If you agree I shall expect your article to be ready on Tuesday. You may send it by post, but that would mean that you agree to all editorial changes.”

When in doubt Edith was used to think about what her Granny would do, but now she felt she would have to rely on her own wit: no one had ever made job proposals to Lady Violet.

“Tuppence for three words,” she said in a firm voice.

“As far as I know _The Sketch_ paid you a penny for two words.”

“They did, but I was a beginner there.”

“Fair enough. Shake hands?”

Edith offered her hand.

“So when you called me yesterday you wanted to propose me a job?”

“Naturally. And what did you expect?”

Edith looked into her cup in embarrassment.

“Really, Lady Edith, did you believe I was going to give your hand a fatherly pat, raise my eyes to the sky and say in a heartfelt voice, ‘My dear child, I’m older that you are, I know life and I must warn you that you are about to commit a dreadful mistake’?”

Edith felt herself blushing.

“Something like that,” she muttered.

“You’ve spent too much time in the company of so-called noble people. Trust me, I do not care about the company you keep in the National Gallery or elsewhere. In your case I only pursue my own interest as I always do. What you do with your life interests me only if a can gain from it. You tea must be cold, let me call the waitress and order you another.”


	3. Chapter 3

Mary had often heard that there are two good Seasons in a society woman’s life: the one when she is presented at court and the one after she had caught a husband.

At her first Season she seemed to herself a newly-hatched butterfly: after her confinement in the narrow familiar space she suddenly saw a big and loud world around her and figured out that she was the most beautiful creature in it. Then she realized that she was in the entomological museum, where butterflies were put on pins, and that she was destined be pinned too.

She could not say when London Seasons became in her mind a large department store where she was put on display every morning. All day long customers crowded around her, took her, assessed the quality of her material, tried to decide if they could afford something so expensive and put her back. When night came she was returned into her case and she could hear talk above her head: it seems that nobody would buy her, maybe abroad, they still value real British quality there…

She missed her first season as a married woman when Sybil died, and she almost excepted the fact that she’d be heavily pregnant during the second one. But autumn went and winter came, and when the large clock in the drawing-room announced the beginning of 1921 Mary had a sudden revelation.

“I know what’s a matter,” she whispered to Matthew. “I need to feel that I’m truly married. I want my second good Season.”

At now at Lady Elverton’s dinner she felt that she did, in fact, get her second good Season. There was no more place for wavering in her life, she wasn’t afraid to be underestimated anymore. She won her victory, she got her prize, she brought the beast home from the hunt and was basking in her own glory. It was time to rest on her laurels.

_And next year_ , she thought, _I’ll have a son_.

She caught a glimpse of Edith sitting with a sour expression, and didn’t give it a second thought – that was a common occurrence. On their way home Edith gloomily declared that Lady Elverton always had unbearably boring guests, that she had a splitting headache and wanted to sleep. Mary gave an indifferent yawn; she was too content to be wry. But when the car approached Granthams’ townhouse Edith laughed unexpectedly.

“Mary, are you going straight to bed? Because I have to tell you something, it’s very funny.”

“What, you won’t tell me a secret?” Matthew joked.

Edith laughed again.

“Oh, no! Forgive me, Matthew, but no is a no. And you must give me your world of honor that you won’t ask Mary about it.”

Matthew looked at his wife, she rolled her eyes to the sky.

“I shall be mute as... Lord Elverton, he is muter than any proverbial grave. Have your secrets, I’ll wait in the library.”

It seemed Edith’s funny secret, whatever it was, could not be shared on the stairs. Mary went to her bedroom and sat in front of the dressing table, Edith perched on the bed where she could be seen in the mirror.

“Did you notice the woman across from me, the one with the Tiffany’s necklace?”

“No, I don’t think I paid attention.”

“Of course you didn’t. She was very mean to me, quite openly mean, and I couldn’t understand why. I could barely remember her name, Lady Elverton always receives such mixed society. Well, that was Margot Stein, Carlisle’s _petite-amie._ She probablythought that I was you, and that’s the reason she lashed out at me so. So, congratulations, you must’ve made an impression if she is still jealous of you after... was it a year or longer?”

Mary winced. She also believed that Carlisle should’ve immigrated to Australia. 

“And Lady Elverton receives such a woman? Charming. Please don’t tell Papa, he believes the world is coming to an end as it is.”

Edith yawned.

“Lady Elverton receives everyone, that’s why there is always such a crowd. That’s like going to the Zoo in an evening-dress. By the way, that Margot had a wonderful dress, Miss Reid says that last year Carlisle had spent four thousand pounds on her clothes alone.”

Mary took of her ruby bracelet.

“Good for him. Who is Miss Reid and why she discusses such topics with you?”

“She’s Carlisle’s secretary. And what should we talk about – national debt?”

“For that matter, I don’t understand the need to talk to Carlisle secretary at all.”

“Well, why not? After all, we work together.”

Mary turned away from the mirror and stared at her sister.

“You work with Carlisle’s secretary? Where would that be?”

“In his paper,” Edith answered as if reminding Mary of basic maths.

“You work in Carlisle’s newspaper? And what happened to what’s-his-name, Mr Gregson?”

During the last few months Lady Grantham took great pains to exclude Mr Gregson from Edith’s life. Mary thought that she should tell Mama about the success of her endeavor – keeping the particulars to herself.

“No idea,” Edith said with fake nonchalance. “He still works at _The Sketch_ , I presume. After all he is not the only newspaperman in England.”

“And you decided to go round all of them?!”

“If you wish to be nasty, I’ll leave.”

“No, wait! How long have you been working for Carlisle?”

“For the last three weeks.”

“And you never thought about telling me?’

Edith pretended she was thinking about it. 

“You know what – no, I didn’t. On the other hand, if you were in the habit of reading my column in _The Sketch_ , you _might_ have noticed that it stopped coming out, and you _might_ have asked me the reason, and I _might_ have said that I changed my place of employment.”

“So, that’s it? You were hurt that I wasn’t paying attention to you scribbling and to spite me you decided to work for the only man in England I wish to have nothing in common with?!”

“The only one?” Edith repeated wryly. “You can’t do additions correctly, I know at least five such men. And you might be surprised, but I don’t write articles to spite you, I don’t change jobs to spite you, I live my own life and I don’t care about your opinion at all. Believe it or not, the world doesn’t revolve around you, Mary!”

She turned around angrily and left the bedroom. Mary sat on the bed suddenly exhausted. It seemed to her that the world was indeed revolving around her, and its axis was inserted into her right temple.

She sat for some time without moving, then she rose and went purposefully to the hall. Granny always said that the best cure for splitting headaches was creating a headache for someone else, and Mary knew just the person.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning Lady Elverton called Sir Richard and asked him for lunch. Judging by her mysterious voice she was going to impart some most astounding information, but Sir Richard was quite familiar with her and knew that Lady Elverton always talked in a mysterious voice. That was one of the reasons her salon was so successful: people took Lady Elverton’s invitations with an uncertain feeling of upcoming revelations, and left her drawing room feeling sure they had taken part in the higher mysteries of diplomacy, politics and high society. Lady Elverton became a _lionne_ thanks to telephone.

It appeared that Sir Richard was to be the only guest, and he gave an imperceptive sigh – he realized that Lady Elverton was going to ask him for something. However, his aristocratic friends always asked him for something, and not all of them had the decency to treat him to an oyster lunch beforehand.

“What a pity you missed our soiree,” Lady Elverton said gently. If you could trust her tone, yesterday her drawing room housed at least two scandals and an engagement, with a giraffe dropping by.

“I regret it very much, but you know my timetable. Business, business and more business. I’m sure I missed a lovely evening.”

“Lovely,” said Lady Elverton, “but troubled as well. Dear Margaret…”

Sir Richard almost asked, “Who?” Lady Elverton was one of ten London ladies who were still calling Margot _dear Margaret_ , all the rest had dropped that habit before the war. 

“…dear Margaret asked to be seated across Edith Crawley. They seemed to be friends in their débutante days.”

Sir Richard thought that in Margot’s débutante days Edith Crawley was wearing short skirts and leaning French verbs, but he said nothing: he knew better than to comment on women’s age, whether true or made-up.

“Last night I got a call from Mary Crawley, fancy that. It appears that her family strongly objects to Edith’s talking to dear Margaret or even being seen in her company. Of course, I understand that you can’t be too careful with an unmarried girl’s reputation, but on the other hand…”

“But on the other hand it would seem that Lady Mary wishes to be holier than the Pope. I never knew her to be such a prude when she herself was an unmarried girl.”

Lady Elverton sighed heavily.

“And now, Sir Richard, imagine my agony. I can’t tell the Granthams that if they are not satisfied with my guests they can stop visiting me, I simply can’t.  But then how can I tell dear Margaret that I won’t receive her anymore because she may have a bad influence on an unmarried girl? This is so… improper, so… old-fashioned.”

Sir Richard thought that he would’ve preferred a request for a loan.

“Of course,” he said firmly, “of course you cannot tell Lady Stein anything like that. But I’m sure there will be no need for such talks. You with your natural tact surely will ensure that the Granthams and Lady Stein never met in you drawing room again, and no one the wiser.”

“Oh, Sir Richard, if it were so simple! If only I could be sure that I’d never have to discuss that distressing topic again!”

Sir Richard patted her hand reassuringly.

When he came back to his office, he told his secretary that he wasn’t in for anyone, and spent some time drawing ellipses and eights on a sheet of paper. He had always known that Margot was stupid, but she had a faultless feline instinct that had, till now, protected her from such blunders. After all, he became her lover to gain new useful connection, and not to pass Lady Elverton’s excuses!

Having reached that point, he frowned and drew a big question mark. When he became close to Margot he promised himself that he’d never fall in love with this woman. Now, one year later, he could tell himself that he’d kept his promise, but for some reason it gave him no satisfaction. Margot was beautiful, dressed elegantly, she was the mistress of small talk and possessed that special sort of wit which didn’t demand brains. Why wasn’t he in love with her indeed? Might he be unable to love anymore? That was unpleasant. Sir Richard treated his emotions as his savings: investing them in an unsecure business and losing was bad, not having them at all was worse.  

He drew a second question mark next to the first one. Could he have squandered all his capital on Mary Crawley? She was married to that fop of a cousin now. Sir Richard tried to remember what had he felt when he kissed her in Haxby, but could sense nothing except annoyance. He bought her an estate he still hadn’t manages to resell, he saved her reputation, he offered her his name knowing she was a fallen woman – and what did he get in return? He knew he had loved her once, but looking back he was vexed, disappointed, hurt – and felt no love.  He crumpled the sheet of paper and threw it into the waste-bin.

Why on earth would Margot want to sit across Edith Crawley, though? What a strange idea! If she wanted to tease Mary there were more effective ways of doing it. Sir Richard imagined a duel of two caustic brunettes and frowned. Getting a copy instead of an original was humiliating, but what if one lost the taste for the original as well? He took another sheet of paper and drew a wavy line across it.

Margot couldn’t be jealous of Edith, could she? She couldn’t be jealous of a woman who had worked for him for three weeks and whom he had seen once in all that time; of Mary’s sister, Matthew Crawley’s sister-in-law, earl Grantham’s daughter? And that affair with Gregson, dear God! One could tolerate such a thing once, but twice, and with sisters as well?

The second sheet went to the waste-bin. Sir Richard took a clean one and wrote:

 

_My dear, you caused quite a commotion yesterday at Elvertons’. Lady Edith Crawley is forbidden from being in your company for fear of your bad influence. Don’t do that again._

_R._

 

He rang for his secretary and gave her the letter.

“Send it to lady Stein. And if she calls, I’m out on business and will be back very late.”


	5. Chapter 5

_The Season_ , thought Edith, _would be so much nicer without horses_.

Edith had nothing against horses as such: she liked looking at them, feeding them sugar and patting their noses. She simply disliked riding. 

When she was sixteen she refused to participate in a fox hunt. It was the first occasion when she openly opposed her father and one of the few when she had her way. She often thought that day was the day Sir Robert was completely disappointed in her, but she didn’t waver. Being an unloved daughter was better than breaking your neck. Maybe Edith did have secret fantasies of her repentant parents crying over her early grave, but she had no intention of going into said grave till she was ninety.

You can’t live in a large estate, be an earl’s daughter and skip riding altogether. Sometimes Edith had to wear her riding habit and climb on the meekest horse in the stables, but she tried to do it on her own terms: no canter, no riding in the rain, no shooting in five-mile radius, and preferably no Mary in the county.

The day she managed to start the car, go fifty yards and stop Edith finally decided that she wasn’t made for riding. The car had no soft nose and ate no sugar, but it stopped when it was told to, wasn’t scared by the gunshots and never tried to throw the driver into the gutter.

Before this Season began Edith had refused to ride in Hyde Park. This time she had to fight not just her father, but her mother and Granny as well because morning rides along the Ladies’ Mile were a duty of every unmarried girl of any standing, but she won – though it happened not because someone listened to her arguments, but because Mary asked whether Edith’s chances of catching a husband would be really improved by her falling of a horse in public. Now she spent her mornings in her room writing articles in blissful solitude.

Still, it seemed one couldn’t get rid of the horses after all: the races were the high peak of the Season.

In Newmarket the Granthams parted ways: Mary took Matthew to look at the horses, Cora took Robert to greet to their friends and acquaintances, and Edith stayed behind to keep Granny company. In exactly fifteen seconds Granny enquired, “Are you really going to sit here?” Edith obediently went below and stumbled into Richard Carlisle.

She never told her parents about working for him for the same reason she never told them about going to the theatre or calling on Aunt Rosamund. People leading a secret life quickly learn that hiding everything is easier than hiding something. Edith’s secret life was over in April, but it left behind some senseless secret, new work included. Were Mary to complain to their parents Edith would’ve shrugged and asked so what. But the parents seemed to remain ignorant so Edith felt as if she had committed some terrible blunder and Mary was covering up for her.

So since seeing Carlisle was unpleasant she smiled, gave him her hand and said,

“Sir Richard, what a nice surprise!”

“Hardly a surprise,” he answered dryly. “Newmarket Races are rather a prominent event.”

Edith had no answer to that so she said, “Really?” and turned her head to the stalls.

“On the other hand,” Carlisle continued in the same displeased voice, “seeing you _is_ nice. Are you fond of races?”

Edith was going to say that she adored races, but changed her mind.

“Not exactly. In fact, I find them boring, and I don’t think horses like them either. Every year Papa and Mary assure me that racehorses love races, but I’m still not convinced.”

Carlisle endured the mention of Mary rather indifferently.

“I don’t see why it matters. After all, the races are not organized to entertain horses.”

Edith said, “Really?” again, but this time she was genuinely surprised.

“Games of chance are of interest only if you have something to win or lose,” he resumed. “Do you place bets?”

“No, never. I know nothing about it, and I never carry money anyway.”

“Would you like to try? They say there is such thing as beginners’ luck. I’ll put money for you, you name the horse and we’ll share the spoils.”

Edith was momentarily lost, than she nodded.

“Excellent. Let’s go look at the horses.”

Edith almost warned him that Mary and Matthew were looking at the horses too, but changed her mind and silently gave him her hand.

“Don’t try to make a reasonable choice,” he warned her. “You won’t be able to, anyway. Choose the horse you like.”

“What a wonderful philosophy! In that case I like this horse, it has a sweet cloth. Chocolate and pistachio, like my favorite candy.”

“Cimmerian, number five in second lap, one to two.”

“Is it a good thing?”

“It means that he’s a favorite or close. A good chance to win, a bad chance to gain.”

Out of the corner of her eye Edith noticed Mary’s red dress and carefully steered Carlisle the other way.

“That’s a pretty horse.”

“Penelope, number six in the third lap, one to fifty.”

“Does it mean that no one bets on her? How strange, she looks so nice… It’s a good thing horses know nothing about it, or her feelings would be hurt. Oh, she looks our way, what a pity I have no sugar.”

“You wouldn’t be allowed to feed the horse before that race. Well, Cimmerian and Penelope, ten pound each. What use is beginner’s luck if you don’t bet on a dark horse, right?”

He kissed her hand and went to the ticket office. Edith followed him with her eyes. He had said nothing special – he had been almost rude – but she felt that his every word had a second hidden meaning. _I’m going mad_ , she thought, _I’m turning into a classical old maid. Soon I’ll believe a man in love with me if he so much as asks the time!_ She went back to the stalls and sat next to Granny.

“What’s wrong with your face, did you put on rouge?”

Edith pressed her hand to her cheek. 

“Dear God, Granny, how could you think that?!”

“Be careful, with your color you’ll end up not a shepherdess, but a dairy-maid”.

 

*~*

 

Cimmerian won the second lap. Lord Grantham gave his ticket a skeptical look.

“I’m not sure the winning is worth the effort of collecting it. One to two. The great unfairness of races – if a horse is really good, you earn next to nothing on it.  Well, Jack can be satisfied, he proved the merits of Arab blood to everyone. I won’t be surprised if that horse gets the Triple Crown.”

 _That means nothing_ , thought Edith, _absolutely nothing_.

She started conjugating _venir_ , it always helped her to collect her thoughts. _Je viens, tu viens, il vient…_ When she reached _qu’ils vinnsent,_ the thirdlap was over.

Lord Grantham threw his ticket away with disgust.

“Well, there you had your beloved intrigue,” Mary said calmly. “I hate it when they fall. Edith, you can open your eyes, it’s over. I wonder if someone bet on this number six? Lucky someone, then.”

Sir Richard was waiting for them by the car.

“Good day, Milord, Milady. That was quite an interesting race, wasn’t it? Lady Edith, my congratulations.”

He gave her a simple white envelope, bowed his head and left.

“Congratulations with what?” Lord Grantham asked. “What is it?”

“Money,” said Edith. “He placed a bet in my name in two laps.”

“If you wished to play, you could’ve told me or Matthew. What’s your business with Carlisle?”

“I work in his newspaper, that’s all.”

“You wha…”

“Mary knows,” Edith interrupted, “and I didn’t think anyone else cared. Are we going to stand near the car all day?”

“And how much money is there?” Lady Violet enquired once inside the car.

Edith pondered on it.

“Two times ten is twenty, ten times fifty is five hundred, that’s five hundred and twenty, divided in two… Two hundred and sixty, I presume. It doesn’t matter, I’ll give it all to charity, of course.”

“Ten times fifty?” repeated Lord Grantham incredulously. “Carlisle placed a bet on number six in the third lap? Well, that’s clear now.”

Edith sat as upright as the soft leather seat would let her.

“What exactly is clear, may I ask?”

“This lap was a put-up job, and he used you as his cover. Edith, how can you possibly be so naïve? You must never let anyone place bets in your name, unless it’s me or Matthew!”

“So I should consider a cheat anyone who wins where you lose?”

“If Carlisle really tempered with the results, why would he give Edith part of his winnings?” Matthew said softly. “And would he really take such risk for mere two hundred and sixty pounds?”

They came home, Edith changed for dinner, let the maid go, took the envelope from her handbag and counted the money. It was hardly appropriate, but she couldn’t help herself, she had to be sure of her luck. There were fifteen hundred pounds in the envelope.

She counted the money again. Nothing changed. She found two race tickets in the envelope, two bets, fifty pounds each.

Edith gave this sheaf of pounds a stunned look. She was at a loss. A ten-pounds bet could be a slight flirt or a simple courtesy, but fifty pounds? She could not consider it courtship – that would make it an extremely rude and offensive way of courting, impossible for a gentleman. But still, this unthinkable gesture was strangely flattering as if Carlisle tried to show her the value he put on her and her opinions…

She counted her winnings again. Edith knew the value of money but remotely. Pounds, shillings and pennies held for her mostly symbolic worth, but she had spent last year writing columns and every week she drank tea with Miss Reid, this wonderful specimen of a working woman, and it had taught her something. Fifteen hundred pounds could mean a small flat in London, a maid and a cook (no, only a cook) and modest, but elegant clothes. They could mean freedom and independence…

Edith held the race tickets, sighed and put the money back in the envelope. Freedom and independence – as a millionaire’s whim, as a chance winning? Thank you, Sir Richard, but no.


	6. Chapter 6

Sir Richard took three five-hundred cheques from his pocket, for the tenth time in three days. A foundation for relief to war veterans, a shelter for homeless cats and dogs, some society in defense of fallen women. The cheques had been accompanied by a note: _Best regards, Edith Crawley_ , but, naturally, Sir Richard didn’t carry it in his pocket. 

“Miss Reid, what would you do if you won at races?”

If Miss Reid was surprised, it didn’t show.

“I’d buy a winter coat, a string of pearls and go to Brighton for a week.”

“Would you? And why Brighton and not, say, Paris?”

“It takes two people to go to Paris, Sir Richard.”

“You’re a sensible woman, Miss Reid, I always knew it.”

He went to his office, sat in an armchair and put three cheques on the table in front of him. What a weird girl!

For some reason he remembered meeting Margot. He was in Paris then and he was unbearably bored (Miss Reid was right, it took two people to enjoy Paris), and one day he found himself near a railway station and bought a ticket to Monte-Carlo. As he realized on the train, it was rather trite – being disappointed in love and going to play roulette – but still, anything was better than boredom. In the casino he noticed a young lady in a burgundy dress who kept staking on red. Her French was perfect, but her exclamation when she saw the black win was purely English. Sir Richard smile inwardly, staked on red with her – and won. Margot collected her chips and went to the next table, Sir Richard followed her.

Now she was staking on sixteen, and Sir Richard repeated her every stake. Some players left the table, he took advantage of it and stood next to Margot. She didn’t acknowledge his presence.  The croupier changed, Margot had only two chips left and that’s when sixteen won. Croupier gave Margot and Sir Richard a questioning look and moved the winnings in their general direction. Margot negligently grabbed all the chips, put them in her bag, and only then she turned to Sir Richard, looked him straight in the face and smiled.

He sighed and took his cheque-book. Provided they didn’t print it in a newspaper or something. War veterans and cats weren’t so bad, but fallen women? He wrote three cheques and started to screw up his pen, but then he changed his mind, took a sheet of paper and wrote a short letter. He reread it, crossed out one word and wrote another in its place.

“I need to go to the bank,” he told Miss Reid. “Please send this letter to Lady Stein, and, Miss Reid… if she calls, I’m not in.”

 

Upon entering the Royal Chelsea Hospital, which hosted the annual flower show, Sir Richard pictured with dismay a day of wandering among roses and petunias.  Yet he got lucky and he found the Granthams in the first pavilion he entered. Lady Grantham and Lady Violet were discussing the merits and faults of a trellis entwined by tea-roses, men looked bored, Mary and Edith were talking in undertones. Mary was the first to spot him, and she involuntary stepped back. Edith turned around, saw him and smiled.

“Sir Richard, you’re here? That’s fortunate, I have a message for you. Mrs. Crawley asked me to give you her sincere gratitude.”

Sir Richard gave Mary a wondering look, spared another for Matthew, made some mental calculations and asked:

“Does your mother keep an animal shelter, Mr. Crawley?”

Matthew Crawley’s face became very thoughtful, as if he wished to ask two questions at once and didn’t know which to choose.

“N-not exactly,” answered Edith in his place.

Sir Richard recalculated. What an insane family!

“Did you donate to Mrs. Crawley’s charity, Sir Richard?” Lady Violet enquired. “That’s unexpected, I’ve never regarded you as a philanthropist. Still, I guess, the subject in question must be close to your heart.” 

“I wouldn’t say that. On the whole, I prefer dogs.”

“Or cats,” Mary said softly, looking behind his shoulder. Sir Richard turned around and saw Margot.

A young man in a white suit, obviously chosen to play the part of a shepherd-dog, was walking by her side. Margot was smiling a gentle, mysterious smile which usually accompanied her most vicious verbal attacks. Sir Richard felt that she was going to make him a scene and tried to step aside, but Margot didn’t notice him. He breathed in relief: Margot was so short-sighted that she could’ve missed him; he used to lose her in the crowd and find her having a lively though one-sided small talk with a flattered and surprised gentlemen in a grey suit identical to his own.

Then he realized she was heading for Edith.

“Lady Edith, my darling! I’m so sincerely, sincerely happy for you! How wonderful it is, how glad your dear parents must be! I’m beside myself with joy! Hard to believe, just when we all were loosing hope, you gave everyone such a pleasant surprise! I always say that spinsters shouldn’t discard elderly men – but, of course, you know it better than most. I can only hope this time your luck holds a tiny bit longer. Oh, dear God, such marvelous roses!”

Sir Richard looked at Granthams: Lord Grantham was outraged, Matthew was confused, Lady Grantham had already forgotten the whole unfortunate incident, Mary and Lady Violet were deeply interested, Edith was transformed into a pillar of salt.

“I’m afraid Lady Stein doesn’t know how to lose,” he said, trying to suppress all traces of embarrassment from his voice. 

Pillar of salt became a pillar of ice.

“To lose, Sir Richard? I didn’t know Lady Stein and I were playing some game. In future, please, if you place bets in my name, I’d like you to notify me in advance.”

“I’ll take you at your word.”

Pillar of ice showed some signs of thawing.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Epsom races are a week from now, I will remind you of your promise.”

“Will you? You are taking a risk, Sir Richard, they say that beginners’ luck works just once.”

“Trust me, Lady Edith, this time I’m leaving nothing to chance.”

Edith took a deep breath.

“Really? Well, see you at Epsom, then.”


	7. Chapter 7

No one in Downton Abbey ever talked about the wedding of Edith and Sir Anthony. It was the proverbial rope that wasn’t to be mentioned in the house of a hanged man – or, as Edith used to think, in front of the hanged man. When she realized that no one would ever talk to her about that indelicate subject, she made herself look at the mirror and say _Sir Anthony Strallan_ and _jilted at the altar_. The third time she managed to say it. The fifth time she did it without tears. 

After the flower show in Chelsea she went to her room, stood in front of the mirror and said _Sir Richard Carlisle_ That was easy – too easy, as she had to admit. There had to be some other complicated words, but Edith was unable to pronounce them: neither looking in the mirror, nor looking away from it, not hiding under her blanket at night. She had to accept that her life now contained something that couldn’t be talked about. 

When Lady Grantham said, in a very concerned voice, that Edith had too few ball dresses, she needed several more and God knows what the cost would be in the middle of the Season, Edith answered very meekly that of course she would go to the dressmaker tomorrow, of course she will look at those Chanel models and of course she will try on Mary’s blue one. Neither of them said that Edith had few ball dresses because old maids were rarely asked to balls, neither of them mentioned the reason for her sudden popularity.

People who came to London in summer all had their individual wills, wishes and interests, but together they made a single body, the Season, and that body had one single purpose – marriages. All those who invited Edith to dinners, balls and picnics could not, obviously, care whether she married or not, but the unwritten law of the Season stated that a single girl who had attracted a bachelor’s interest should be seen in society as much as possible, and in obedience of this law the tray in the hall of the Crawleys’ mansion was bestrewed with letters and cards. So Edith obediently made visits, dined with young fops and old generals, listened to Rosina’s flirting and Violetta’s sufferings, ate strawberries at Wimbledon looking at white-clad people on the green grass, and kept silent about the main interest of her life. 

Edith said nothing when, the first Tuesday after Chelsea flower show, Lady Grantham asked to go to the editorial office with her, “to see how things were done there.” She said nothing when the next Tuesday Lady Rosamund expressed similar wish. Then Matthew displayed an interest in the workings of a newspaper, and Edith gave up and started sending her articles by post. She could’ve told them not to waste their time – Sir Richard never left his office when she was on the premises – but that would’ve meant talking, something she didn’t wish to do.

She tried not to be alone with her father, of Matthew, or both of them. The very first breakfast after the flower show had proved so awkward that Edith started having breakfast in bed. She felt like an impostor or malingerer, but anything was preferable to breakfast with two men who took great pains not to discuss something of lively interest to them.

It seemed that no one could break her vow of silence. Except, it turned out, Thomas Barrow.  One morning, when all the other Granthams were riding in Hyde Park, he knocked at her room, asked her permission to discuss one delicate question with her and said:

“You see, milady, Sir Richard Carlisle offered me ten shillings a week for telling him where you go.”

Edith blushed. Then she imagined Barrow telling this to her parents and stopped breathing.

“I agreed,” he followed imperturbably.

“You... did?”

“Yes, milady. That’s good money for a trifle, after all. All I need is to ask you if you are going for a walk someplace wearing a pretty hat, and then call Sir Richard. If you don’t mind, of course.”

“Really? And what if I… mind?”

“In that case, I cheated a gentleman out of ten shillings and Mr. Carson will disapprove indeed.”

They stared at each other, as if playing a game where you didn’t smile before your opponent did. Edith lost.

“I… see no reason to deprive you of this supplemental income, Barrow.”

“Thank you, milady.”

He turned around and wanted to leave, but Edith stopped him. The temptation to talk at last was too strong.

“You don’t think I’m doing something wrong, do you, Barrow?”

“Of course not, milady. After all, if people married only because they met in a park or at department stores, there wouldn’t be so many single women in England.”

This sentence suspiciously lacked enthusiasm.

“So you think I shouldn’t marry Sir Richard?”

Barrow stepped back towards the door.

“I think that I shouldn’t hold opinions about who you marry, milady.”

“Of course,” Edith interrupted, “and Carson will disapprove of you. I’m so tired of tactful people!”

“Not the worst thing in life, milady, if I dare to say. For example, imagine His Lordship paying Miss O’Brien ten shillings a week to find out where Her Ladyship goes.”

“Papa would never…”

Barrow gave her a gentle approving look, as if she were a child who had just mastered multiplication by seven. Edith forced herself to smile.

“O’Brien would’ve never agreed,” she said lightly, feeling very heavy.

“You are perfectly right, milady. So, you see, it doesn’t matter who you marry, the main thing is to find a good lady’s maid.”

After Barrow silently left her room, Edith sat at her dressing-table and pondered. _A Dictionary of the English Language_ by Dr. Johnson gives us five definitions of the word _gentleman_. Edith’s ideas about the meaning of that word were almost as vague. She believed that you couldn’t be a gentleman if you hadn’t studied at Eton or Harrow; she also considered that Carson and Bates were gentlemen, while Barrow and both footmen weren’t. Sir Richard obviously wasn’t a gentleman. He had graduated from school in Sheffield, he worked and had his own business, he had a mistress (Edith wasn’t so naïve as to regard it as something unprecedented for an unmarried gentleman, but the whole thing was too public), and, finally, he was tactless. She imagined being married to such a man and closed her eyes. Her parents, Mary, Barrow – they all were right, it was unthinkable.

She opened her eyes, looked at the mirror and said, “I want to marry Sir Richard Carlisle.”

Later that day Cora came to her and gave her a sheet of paper.

“I’ve made a list of guests for your birthday. Have a look, maybe you’d like to add someone?”

The invitation to talk was so blatant that Edith wavered. The day before she would’ve named Carlisle and would’ve been embraced, comforted, persuaded. Now she took the list and read it with great attention and cold heart.

“No, Mama, it seems you’ve omitted no one.”

Cora kissed her cheek sadly.


	8. Chapter 8

The Season ends on the August, 12th – the Glorious Twelfth, when the first grouse flies in Scotland. Fat Scottish grouses probably don’t know about the important part they play on the British social scene – ‘t were better if they didn’t.

Each morning Sir Richard woke up thinking that he had time till the 12th of August. A month odd to secure his rights to Edith Crawley, a month or so to understand whether he desired it.

Since Newmarket he hadn’t managed to see her alone even once. Every day his office telephone would ring and a polite, slightly drawling male voice would say “Promenade concert,” or “Berlington House exposition,” or “Zoological Garden, near the bear cage,” or “Harrods’, toy department.” But in none of these places Edith was on her own. To tell the truth, it was only appropriate: by society rules, a man and a woman couldn’t have a tête-à-tête before the evening of their wedding, and one even proposed in presence of some elderly female relation. And yet Sir Richard knew by experience how easy in was to get around these strict rules. Now he found out how hard it was to live by them. He saw Edith every day, made small talk with her and every night went to sleep thinking of impending Glorious Twelfth.

Fortunately, there were still places where a man in evening dress could get about five minutes relatively alone with a lady. Unfortunately, they were called _balls_.

At the entrance of the ballroom Sir Richard was caught and taxed: he had to ask for waltzes two adorable cousins of the hostess. Meanwhile Edith had disposed of eight dances; Sir Richard silently promised himself never to underestimate Lady Grantham. Still, Edith herself was to be taken into account: there were two waltzes left in her carnet.

“The third and the seventh. I’m afraid, Sir Richard, that is all I can dispose of.”

“The seventh?” Lady Grantham asked softly. “My dear, are you sure? I thought we were going home earlier today.”

“Oh, mama, I think you and Papa can leave after the fifth waltz and later send the car for us.”

“But Edith, dear…”

“Why begrudge Mary her time at the ball? She loves to dance. The third and the seventh, Sir Richard.”

Sir Richard hadn’t dances since before the war, and the first two of his partners had valid reasons to be dissatisfied. He didn’t lose count, but he had to keep it all the time; he didn’t collide with other couples, but he had to watch them all the time. There were no resources left for small talk, to say nothing of a light flirt.

“Do you dislike Matthew Crawley?” he asked Edith when at last she gave him her hand.

“On the contrary. What made you think that?”

“When you were dancing with him you looked far from happy. He must be clumsy.”

“Oh, no, Matthew is a great dancer…”

“But?”

“But I wish Mary didn’t make him invite me.”

“I can’t believe someone must be _made_ to invite you Lady Edith.”

“Oh, half of my partners tonight. But Matthew would’ve never asked me on his own volition, he has too much natural tact for that.”

“While your sister…”

“While my sister has too many good intentions. She doesn’t want me to be a wallflower, that’s very kind of her, but dancing with one’s brother-in-law is almost like dancing with one’s brother.”

“As boring?”

“As humiliating.”

“Ah, I see. Well, that peculiarity of Lady Mary’s good intentions is easily believable.”

“Sir Richard, I’d rather you didn’t talk about my sister in such a tone.”

“I’ll cede the privilege to you, Lady Edith.”

“Thank you very much.”

“To tell the truth, I’d rather we didn’t talk about your sister at all.”

“I couldn’t object less, Sir Richard. But pray, what shall we talk about in that case?”

“You, for example.”

“Me?”

“Certainly.”

“I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone that exciting conversation till the seventh waltz, this one will be over soon. Please, take me back to my place. I promised the next waltz to young Hardwick, if I don’t stand exactly on the same spot, he might never find me.”

“Does he have difficulties in finding his way around the room?’

“He has difficulties remembering my face.”

Sir Richard passed her to the young Hardwick and pondered: did his promise to “talk about her during the seventh waltz” mean that he’d propose to her when dancing? He suspected that he wasn’t up to it, neither physically nor mentally.  

 

But when the seventh waltz began at last, Edith shuddered, stopped and said, “ _Rêve d’automne_! Forgive me, Sir Richard, I can’t dance to this music. Let’s just go to the balcony.”

Sir Richard followed her, trying not to look at Lady Grantham.

On the balcony Edith turned her back to the gas-lit windows and said, in a low voice:

“Did you know that this waltz played on the _Titanic_ , when it was drowning? I can’t stand it since then.”

Sir Richard frowned. He had hoped that her sudden dislike of the _Rêve d’automne_ had been just a pretext for this private talk. Her next words displeased him farther.

“There died a man I loved very much.”

Sir Richard thought that probably a proposal wasn’t required now. That was unpleasant.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Edith said still not turning to him. _What an exiting past this… modest girl has_. Am I right?”

That hadn’t been in Sir Richard thoughts at all. Until that moment.

“My cousin Patrick – he was the one who perished on the _Titanic_ , farmer Drake, a wounded Canadian during the war and Michael Gregson. And, of course, Sir Anthony Strallan, one mustn’t forget Sir Anthony.”

“Farmer,” Sir Richard repeated. Of all the things he could’ve said that was the worst, but he couldn’t help himself. “Were you in love with a farmer?”

“Of course not. But... we kissed.”

It was the right moment for kissing her, but Sir Richard wasn’t in the mood.

“You and a farmer?”

“Yes.”

 _Dear God in heaven_ , thought Sir Richard, full of terror, _every time I believe I can expect anything from this family… A farmer!_

He kept silent. He felt that every passing second made him miss his chance, and he didn’t know whether he cared.

“The music is coming to the end,” Edith said drily. “Accompany me to the ballroom, if you’d be so kind.”

Sir Richard felt that didn’t have to wait till the Glorious Twelfth to find out Edith’s answer. He said, almost mechanically, “You owe me a waltz.”

Edith gave him a look full of calm interest.

“Are you sure, Sir Richard?”

“Quite.”

“In that case, you will get it. I wouldn’t be in your debt for a world. We may begin, I’m available for this dance.”

Sir Richard had seen this dance marked as “Matthew Crawley” in her carnet, but refrained from commenting.

“A farmer?” he repeated for want of something better.

“Really, Sir Richard, I fail to understand what is it that shocks you so much.”

“Surprises me, rather. I’ve always thought you had been in love with your vicar.”

She missed a step.

“Our vicar?”

“Yes, Lady Edith. You have always impressed me as a girl capable of giving her heart to a parson.”

“Our vicar is older then my Granny!”

“Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments,” answered Sir Richard sententiously.

Edith laughed.

“You are a terrible man. And a snob.”

“That is not true, when I was sixteen I was in love with a waitress from a confectionary shop.”

“You’ve just made it up.”

“Really? And who’s a snob now?”

Now he could’ve easily kissed her.


	9. Chapter 9

Terribly sorry about the mix-up with chapters! This time it's definitely in the right sequence. 

 

 

Edith wasn’t overly fond of her birthday. Like all people who see themselves as underappreciated, she expected too much from that day and was always disappointed accordingly. When she was a child, her birthday used to mark another year in which she didn’t get a kitten. When she grew up, her birthday started to mean that she was a year older and still unmarried.

But this year her birthday brought her more than she had ever expected. In the crowd of dinner guests she saw Richard Carlisle.

The first moment she noticed him she believed that he came uninvited and nearly fainted from sheer horror. Thomas Barrow saw the expression of her face and nodded slightly. That did nothing to appease her fears: now she believed that he had bribed their under-butler to get an invitation. But that moment Cora gave her hand a gentle squeeze, a bit gentler then usual, and Edith calmed down. Her parents had some artful plan and they had invited Carlisle to carry it out; that didn’t worry her.

Sir Richard approached her fearlessly and put a green-gold bracelet on her wrist. That was another of improper things he used to do: such familiarity was permissible only in a relative.  But Edith didn’t think about it; she wondered whether the bracelet had been initially intended for Lady Margot Stein. She doubted it, the color was wrong for a brunette.

“What a delightful trinket,” Mary said in a soft voice. “It must be _Lalique_ , am I right? I’ve heard that they are so popular these days you have to wait for two month to get your order. How farsighted you are, Sir Richard!”

It occurred to Edith that when she and her sister were of one mind, the subject matter usually was truly deplorable.

“You underestimate the power of money, Lady Mary,” Sir Richard answered coldly. “I ordered this thing a week ago.”

“Underestimate the power of money? Maybe I do. And maybe my estimation is correct, and it is you who are mistaken.”

At the table Edith was dismayed to find herself facing Sir Richard, in custody of Lady Violet and Marchioness Flintshire. She herself was surrounded by Marquis Flintshire and young Hardwick, who celebrated the occasion by being even more tragically silent than usual.

The first charge began during the fish course: Marchioness Flintshire asked Sir Richard his opinion about the universal suffrage.

“I think that it is a negligible nonsense.”

“Really? So, you are against the right of women to vote?”

“I didn’t say that, milady.”

“You speak in riddles, Sir Richard!”

“Not in the least. I think that the right to vote is a responsibility, to which ninety percent of British citizens, male or female, are not ready.”

“I doubt you’d say that in the House of Commons,” Marquis Flintshire grumbled.

“The House of Commons is the ultimate proof of my point, look at the people who get elected.”

“You, for example.”

“I consider myself a lucky exception, milord.”

“Edith believes modern suffrage laws to be unfair,” Matthew contributed to the conversation.

“And Lady Edith is perfectly right. I could’ve understood property qualifications in America, but here, in England, where most fortunes are not earned, but inherited? I see no reason to give the right to vote exclusively to people who can only parasitize on the efforts of their ancestors.”

The ensuing silence was ominous. Edith realized that in another moment someone was going to say _Parasitize, Sir Richard?_ through clenched teeth any second now and an ugly scene would follow.

“I think that the age qualification is the most unfair,” she said hastily. “Everyone knows that women grow up and gain intelligence quicker than men.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Lady Violet said in a careless tone. “Some girls never seem to learn from other people’s mistakes.”

“But dear Violet, if we were truly learning from other people’s mistakes, that would keep us from making our own, how bored we’d be!” Marchioness Flinshire riposted.

And so table-talk once more became moderately witty and moderately senseless, which was perfect for the occasion, and Edith relaxed, but then Sir Richard took the floor again.

“If it depended on me, I’d go for educational qualification.”

Young Hardwick shuddered – apparently, the word _educational_ touchedsome sensitive chords in his soul.

“Educational, Sir Richard?” Matthew enquired.

“Oh, I can assure you I wouldn’t be asking the potential voters about Gallic Wars. But I would ask then to describe the political system of Great Britain, I would pose some questions about geography and I would test their command of four rules of arithmetic. I suppose it would do the trick.”

Edith thought that, indeed, it did the trick quite sufficiently.

Her family seemed to be of different mind, though: at the venison course Matthew asked Sir Richard’s opinion about working women in a most ingratiating manner.

“I can’t fathom what you expect to hear, Mr. Crawley. There is an economical reason for women’s labor, and I never argue with economy.”

“Oh, for sure. But suppose you were married, you would certainly demand that your wife quit working, wouldn’t you?”

“If I married a shop girl, a maid or my own secretary, I certainly would.”

Young Hardwick  suddenly guffawed.

“That’s a fortunate idea,” lady Violet said rather loudly.

“I suppose that any person working for money would be glad of an opportunity to quit. Don’t you agree, Mr. Crawley?”

“Yes, but a woman may have other reasons for working.”

“In that case I fail to see why her marriage must impede her having fun.”

“Fun?” repeated Matthew, looking at Edith.

“Yes, Mr. Crawley. Any labor done without the goal of earning money is essentially fun. I see no reason to forbid it, what’s more, I believe that a married woman would be happier by having some occupation besides talking to the cook and the dresser. After all, you yourself have lots of fun playing in law.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why, do you have some other name for your office hours? Your legal work doesn’t make your living, you have no ambition to become a barrister or a judge, you’re just having fun waiting for the title. I’m not sitting in judgment, mind you, I find it a much more sensible entertainment that a partridge-shooting.”

“I hope Matthew never becomes a judge,” Edith said. “I’m sure those wigs must be a ruin to hair. Maybe that’s the reason there are no female judges?”

“My dear girl, what an idea!” Marchioness Flintshire exclaimed. “I wouldn’t dream of becoming a judge. My heart is soft as butter, anyway, I would’ve set everyone free.”

“So would I, Aunt Susan, so would I. But all women can’t be as weak as we are. I’m sure Mary wouldn’t blink before sentencing someone to death.”

“That depends on the accused,” Mary said, giving Carlisle a cold look.

Young Hardwick took it personally and fidgeted.

Edith had to defuse Carlisle two more times – at the pudding course when Marquis of Flintshire lured him into discussing classical education, and after dinner, during the “adverbs” game. By the end of the evening, when the guests started to leave at last, she was completely exhausted.

It wasn’t that he was saying something particularly shocking. That day at the Granthams’ table there were at least five people whose worldly reputation was based on ability to pronounce three cynical paradoxes during any given dinner. It was his _manner_ of talking. He gave his opinion as if he were presenting everyone with an overdue water-bill: “I know it can’t be pleasant, but those are the facts, be good to comply.” Edith knew another man with such manners, it was Tom Branson, and while she grew accustomed to him she would never marry him. 

What if all her life resembled this evening: never a moment of calm, not a chance to state her own opinion, everlasting attempts to smooth over his blunders, while he happily ignores even being in the wrong, and condescending pity of those around her. “Poor Edith! He is not a man of our circle, after all, you can always feel that. On the other hand, what choice did she have, at her age?”

 _What a pity he isn’t a chauffer_ , she thought. How simple her life would be if she fell in love with, say, Barrow! She’d simply marry him, rent a small flat in London and never care what Aunt Susan of young Hardwick thought about her husband. She imagined kissing Barrow and laughed.

“I love him,” she said looking at the mirror. “I love Richard Carlisle – and that’s not enough.”


	10. Chapter 10

Life of Charles Carson the butler was full of trials and tribulations, that is why he loved the yearly events for their punctuality. Wars and epidemics could rage in Europe, young ladies could marry chauffeurs, valets could kiss footmen, but Christmas, the Season and yearly cricket match always did their duties on time.

That’s why when on July 25th a car stopped in front of the castle and Lady Edith went out of it, Carson didn’t believe the evidence of his eyes. She couldn’t have been in Downton in summer – none of the Crawleys could. It was the fundamental law of the universe.

“Good day, Carson,” Lady Edith said. As her mere presence was disruptive to the  fabric of the world, she should’ve said something more meaningful, but didn’t. 

“Good day, milady,” Carson answered politely.

“Please let someone put the car in the garage, I’m too tired. I will be in my room, send me some maid, please. Is Mr. Branson…”

“Mr. Branson and Miss Sybil are paying a visit to Liverpool, milady.”

“Are they? Very well. I won’t be changing for dinner, and tell Mrs. Patmore not to exert herself: soup and some fish will suffice.”

“As you wish, milady.”

“Please telephone London and warn them that I’ve arrived.”

“Yes, milady.”

“And Carson… I’m not at home for anyone.”

The real English butler can do his duty even after the fabric of the universe has been disrupted. Carson gave the necessary orders in a majestic way, warned Susan the maid against asking silly question about matters which didn’t concern her, approached the telephone and wavered. His position forbade gossiping with subordinates. On the other hand, his duties demanded that he knew what was going on, and there was only one way of finding out. If in that moment Mrs. Hughes had appeared in the hall Carson probably would’ve asked her to telephone London and make enquires – as a frail woman, Mrs. Hughes enjoyed some liberties incompatible with dignities of a man and a butler, to wit, curiosity. But Mrs. Hughes was busy in the linen-room, and Carson picked up the receiver.

“Hello,” Barrow answered.

Carson uttered an angry cough. The end of the world could approach at will, but this didn’t give the under-butler permission to answer the telephone in such a familiar manner.

“Mister Barrow! I cannot fathom why I have to remind you the correct…”

“That’s Mr. Carson,” Barrow explained to someone. “False alarm.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Carson was amazed. It seemed that the end of the world was approaching even faster than he had been led to believe.

“Mr. Carson, if you could be so kind and call later today, or even tomorrow, now is not a good time.”

“Not a good time?! What is going on in the mansion, Mr. Barrow?!”

“I hope that nothing bad, but it were better if people could reach us by the telephone. So with your permission…”

“Mr. Barrow, I hope that when the person you are expecting gets through, you shall greet him in a seemly manner. Tell Lady Grantham that Lady Edith had arrived safely.”

Something fell near the receiver.

“What? Arrived where?”

“To Downton, of course. Mr. Barrow…”

“She’s in Downton,” Barrow told his unseen companion. “Tell her ladyship right now.”

Carson coughed and deplored the absence of Mrs. Hughes.

“Six hours from here to Ripon. She does go with a terrible lick, doesn’t she? Well, thanks for calling, Mr. Carson.”

Carson hung the receiver, took a handkerchief and wiped his brow. Than he did the only thing the circumstances required – he went and checked the lock on the armory door.

Susan the maid went down and said that Lady Edith asked for ink and paper. And tea with sandwiches, too. Carson calmed down slightly: he had never heard about young ladies in desperate plight partaking of tea and sandwiches before the last decisive step.

In ten minutes telephone rang and unpleasantly familiar male voice asked for Lady Edith Crawley.

“She is not at home,” Carson said carefully. “Would you like to leave a message, sir?”

‘Yes, please tell her that Sir Richard Carlisle called, that would be enough.”

Carson gave Lady Edith the message with some trepidation, but she said only, “Thank you very much, Carson.”

Sir Richard called four more times that day.

The next day the telephone didn’t ring, and Carson could catch his breath. Lady Edith went to stroll in the park, and he could see her from the window, sitting on the bench, holding an open book and thinking. Were it Lady Mary, Carson would’ve gone to her and asked what’s the matter, but he never knew how to talk to Lady Edith.

At last she sighed, put her book on the bench and walked toward the house. Carson went to meet her.

“It’s a wonderful day, milady.”

“Yes, it’s splendid. Tell me, Carson, don’t you find it odd that we leave for London every summer instead on staying in Downton and enjoying life? Look, how wonderful it is here.”

When Susan the maid had asked Carson the same question, he told her not to talk nonsense. Before he managed to translate this advice into the language suitable for talking to a young lady, a sound of a running engine was heard and a car drove up to the castle. Lady Edith looked at it incomprehensibly and muttered, “Oh, that’s too much!” and quickly went to the car. She reached it the instant Sir Richard Carlisle emerged from it.

“Why did you come?” she asked angrily. “It’s… indelicate.”

“It is. But I believe we’ve established that I’m a deeply indelicate man. If you need a noble knight who would politely make himself scarce, you’ve chosen a wrong man.”

“I never chose you!”

“That’s precisely the question I meant to discuss with you. We could talk right here, or, if you prefer, I’ll take you to Haxby.”

“Or you could go to Haxby alone and come back when I’m ready to receive you.” 

“I doubt it very much. One never postpones a good deal.”

Lady Edith turned to Carson. For a second he hoped that she’d ask him to call the police, but she said only: “You may go, Carson.”

One could understand the intensity of Carson’s feelings by the fact that he allowed himself to roll his eyed. However, fairness demands to add that before doing so he had turned his back to Lady Edith.

He returned to the castle. The telephone was ringing. Carson gave the bothersome apparatus a surprised look and took the receiver.

“Downton Abbey, Carson the butler speaking, how can I help you?”

“Eh,” Barrow said, “Mr. Carson, could I speak to Lady Edith, please?”

“Certainly not! Mr. Barrow…”

“Just tell her it’s me and I need to talk to her.”

“Mr. Barrow! Even leaving aside the utter impropriety of your talking to a member of His Lordship’s family over the telephone… Lady Edith is out.”

Barrow took a deep breath.

“Well, when she is in, tell her that Sir Richard Carlisle left for Haxby this morning.”

The indignation with which Carson looked at the telephone was certainly undeserved by that blameless machine.

“I don’t see the necessity, Mr. Barrow. At this moment Sir Richard Carlisle is proposing to Lady Edith in the park. And I am forced to say that I find truly deplorable the extent to which you interfere…”

“Five hours and a half,” Barrow muttered. “Half an hour ahead of her.”

The receiver went dumb. Carson turned around and saw Susan the maid who was looking at him with her mouth open.

“Bring that chauffer a cup of tea,” he said severely. “He had just gone from London to Downton in five hours and a half, after all.”

 

THE END


End file.
